Jock Steen was also passing out, his title of ‘sniper’ being confirmed by the senior instructor at the School of Infantry, in Warminster. During his, twenty-four months of military service, he had excelled with the 2nd Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. Known as a ‘sleeper’ by his PIRA handlers, his true name and whereabouts were known only to O’Brien.
Sniper course behind him, Jock travelled to Liverpool, taking advantage of a week’s leave to meet with O’Brien and a high ranking member of the newly formed Provisional Irish Republican Army, (PIRA).
Behind tightly closed doors in the Atlantic Hotel, situated in Chapel Street, Steen met and talked with his handlers.
“ You don’t need to know ma name or where am from, It’ll be better if you only have contact with Patrick here,” The PIRA man’s eyes were tight slits cut into his sharp, face.
Jock looked at O’Brien, taking the broad Northern Irish accent as recognition of the validity of the PIRA official. “I understand.” He said.
“ The skills your learnin’ will help our struggle.” The official continued. “The problem is the British have brought in the MI5 to monitor and follow people like me, so we have no alternative but to keep well out of the way.” He pointed to O’Brien. “ Patrick here has no past, as far as the British intelligence knows, so he’s a very important man.”
“You see Jock, MI5 are beginning to gather intelligence from the province,” O’Brien said, “People like,” he hesitated, “well like him,” he pointed to the stranger, “will be watched.” He continued. “ So it’s important that we can keep you, ‘up our sleeve’, so to speak.”
The stranger leant forward, and held Jock’s forearm, his deep eyes penetrated Jock’s soul “ You are a very important member, of a very important team, your skills will be called upon time after time,” He waited for a moment, his voice lowered menacingly, “let us down and your family will feel the consequences.”
Steen’s body went rigid as the words sank in, his eyes widened and he looked into the sub conscious of the PIRA man. “ Make no mistake, if my family are harmed in any way I’ll…”
O’Brien butted in. “ There’s no way your family will be harmed, their safety is not in question. What my friend here means is that you are in a unique position, these people don’t know you as I do Jock, They’re vulnerable, and don’t know who to trust.” He turned to the PIRA man. “ I’m telling you, this man is not the type who would sell to the highest bidder. I encouraged him to join the British Army, up until that point he was for joining any organisation that would right the wrongs of his Catholic family and the death of his Da’.”
Steen and the PIRA man sat back, each respecting the position of O’Brien.
“What have you for us?” O’Brien continued,
Jock sat silent for a moment and eyed the PIRA man. Letting out a sigh, he went to his briefcase and took out a series of lecture notes used on his sniper’s course, and handed them over.
The PIRA man smiled as he noted the pamphlet’s heading…
‘SCHOOL OF INFANTRY
SNIPER TRAINING
(RESTRICTED)
W02 EVANS
FOR OFFICER COMMANDING’
“ This is exactly what we need Jock,” he said as he thumbed the pages, “of course, we will need to supplement this with practical experience.” He looked straight into Jock Steen’s eyes, “ you are our link, can you come up with the goods? Can you train our active service units?”
“ Sure, he can.” O’Brien intervened. “ Make no mistake, he is more than capable of sharing his experiences with our ‘comrades in arms’ aren’t you Jock?”
Steen nodded as he slid his eyes from the PIRA man to O’Brien.
“As O’Brien knows Jock, we are having problems with weapons, most of the ones we’ve recovered from secret stores are old and rusting.”
“What have you got?” Jock was curious.
“ Well, not much, a few Thompson Sub-machine-guns, two M.1 carbines, a Spanish ‘Star’ automatic pistol, and a German Walther P38, a number of .22 rifles, and five .38 Webley’s”
“ Not much to build an Army, eh Jock.” O’Brien was trying to ease the conversation in the wake of the mistrust of his PIRA contact.
“ We’d appreciate your thoughts on the best weapons for the type of work we’re going to be doin’. We were thinking of Belgium FN’s.”
“ Too long and heavy. The M1’s a good weapon, short and light with plenty of power, makes it an easy weapon to conceal, yet has an effective range of three hundred and thirty yards.”
“The ones we have, we got from friends in America they’re second world war issue,” The PIRA man paused for a moment, “no,” he continued I can’t see us getting enough of them.”
“ In that case, I’d go for the Armalite AR-18, an inch longer, weighing in at 7.75 pounds when it’s loaded, the range increases to around five hundred yards, I’d say it was ideally suited.”
O’Brien put his arm around his protégé’s shoulder tugging him a little. He spoke to his Irish contact. “See, I told you he was good!”
The PIRA man’s stern face mellowed slightly as he responded. “You did indeed, and I can see that your trust has not been misplaced.”
“Anything else?” Jock asked.
“Well we are in a position to buy a number of RPG-7 Portable Rocket Launchers, what’s your thoughts on them?”
“ I have no thoughts, I know nothing about them. Just remember to tell your Army whose side I’m on when they start firing.” Jock’s remark broke the ice.
The trio talked late into the night. Steen suggested that weapon training should begin straight away. It was decided that the training could be done along the banks of the Shannon, using the .22’s and the Webley’s, which could be adapted easily to cut down the noise and power.
Although the meeting had a cold start, by 3 a.m., the three had agreed their roles, and Jock Steen was formerly taken into the swelling ranks of the PIRA. Although it would be some time before his existence would be properly announced to other members.
…
Monday, 21 June 2010
Wednesday, 16 June 2010
Child abduction
CHILD ABDUCTION
For many years we have been involved in the investigation, detection, location and repatriation of abducted children.
We have a great deal of experience in international investigations and have been involved in delicate and difficult negotiations.
We have a ‘can do’ approach to this type of work and will not be deterred by threat or pressure.
Many of our operators have specialist military and intelligence experience.
We are committed to offering a totally safe professional service in this area.
Kenn Griffiths is available at any time for an informal discussion or to give a realistic appraisal of the work and costs involved.
For many years we have been involved in the investigation, detection, location and repatriation of abducted children.
We have a great deal of experience in international investigations and have been involved in delicate and difficult negotiations.
We have a ‘can do’ approach to this type of work and will not be deterred by threat or pressure.
Many of our operators have specialist military and intelligence experience.
We are committed to offering a totally safe professional service in this area.
Kenn Griffiths is available at any time for an informal discussion or to give a realistic appraisal of the work and costs involved.
Sunday, 13 June 2010
WAIT OUT Part 9
…
Jock Steen was also passing out, his title of ‘sniper’ being confirmed by the senior instructor at the School of Infantry, in Warminster. During his, twenty-four months of military service, he had excelled with the 2nd Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. Known as a ‘sleeper’ by his PIRA handlers, his true name and whereabouts were known only to O’Brien.
Sniper course behind him, Jock travelled to Liverpool, taking advantage of a week’s leave to meet with O’Brien and a high ranking member of the newly formed Provisional Irish Republican Army, (PIRA).
Behind tightly closed doors in the Atlantic Hotel, situated in Chapel Street, Steen met and talked with his handlers.
“ You don’t need to know ma name or where am from, It’ll be better if you only have contact with Patrick here,” The PIRA man’s eyes were tight slits cut into his sharp, face.
Jock looked at O’Brien, taking the broad Northern Irish accent as recognition of the validity of the PIRA official. “I understand.” He said.
“ The skills your learnin’ will help our struggle.” The official continued. “The problem is the British have brought in the MI5 to monitor and follow people like me, so we have no alternative but to keep well out of the way.” He pointed to O’Brien. “ Patrick here has no past, as far as the British intelligence knows, so he’s a very important man.”
“You see Jock, MI5 are beginning to gather intelligence from the province,” O’Brien said, “People like,” he hesitated, “well like him,” he pointed to the stranger, “will be watched.” He continued. “ So it’s important that we can keep you, ‘up our sleeve’, so to speak.”
The stranger leant forward, and held Jock’s forearm, his deep eyes penetrated Jock’s soul “ You are a very important member, of a very important team, your skills will be called upon time after time,” He waited for a moment, his voice lowered menacingly, “let us down and your family will feel the consequences.”
Steen’s body went rigid as the words sank in, his eyes widened and he looked into the sub conscious of the PIRA man. “ Make no mistake, if my family are harmed in any way I’ll…”
O’Brien butted in. “ There’s no way your family will be harmed, their safety is not in question. What my friend here means is that you are in a unique position, these people don’t know you as I do Jock, They’re vulnerable, and don’t know who to trust.” He turned to the PIRA man. “ I’m telling you, this man is not the type who would sell to the highest bidder. I encouraged him to join the British Army, up until that point he was for joining any organisation that would right the wrongs of his Catholic family and the death of his Da’.”
Steen and the PIRA man sat back, each respecting the position of O’Brien.
“What have you for us?” O’Brien continued,
Jock sat silent for a moment and eyed the PIRA man. Letting out a sigh, he went to his briefcase and took out a series of lecture notes used on his sniper’s course, and handed them over.
The PIRA man smiled as he noted the pamphlet’s heading…
‘SCHOOL OF INFANTRY
SNIPER TRAINING
(RESTRICTED)
W02 EVANS
FOR OFFICER COMMANDING’
“ This is exactly what we need Jock,” he said as he thumbed the pages, “of course, we will need to supplement this with practical experience.” He looked straight into Jock Steen’s eyes, “ you are our link, can you come up with the goods? Can you train our active service units?”
“ Sure, he can.” O’Brien intervened. “ Make no mistake, he is more than capable of sharing his experiences with our ‘comrades in arms’ aren’t you Jock?”
Steen nodded as he slid his eyes from the PIRA man to O’Brien.
“As O’Brien knows Jock, we are having problems with weapons, most of the ones we’ve recovered from secret stores are old and rusting.”
“What have you got?” Jock was curious.
“ Well, not much, a few Thompson Sub-machine-guns, two M.1 carbines, a Spanish ‘Star’ automatic pistol, and a German Walther P38, a number of .22 rifles, and five .38 Webley’s”
“ Not much to build an Army, eh Jock.” O’Brien was trying to ease the conversation in the wake of the mistrust of his PIRA contact.
“ We’d appreciate your thoughts on the best weapons for the type of work we’re going to be doin’. We were thinking of Belgium FN’s.”
“ Too long and heavy. The M1’s a good weapon, short and light with plenty of power, makes it an easy weapon to conceal, yet has an effective range of three hundred and thirty yards.”
“The ones we have, we got from friends in America they’re second world war issue,” The PIRA man paused for a moment, “no,” he continued I can’t see us getting enough of them.”
“ In that case, I’d go for the Armalite AR-18, an inch longer, weighing in at 7.75 pounds when it’s loaded, the range increases to around five hundred yards, I’d say it was ideally suited.”
O’Brien put his arm around his protégé’s shoulder tugging him a little. He spoke to his Irish contact. “See, I told you he was good!”
The PIRA man’s stern face mellowed slightly as he responded. “You did indeed, and I can see that your trust has not been misplaced.”
“Anything else?” Jock asked.
“Well we are in a position to buy a number of RPG-7 Portable Rocket Launchers, what’s your thoughts on them?”
“ I have no thoughts, I know nothing about them. Just remember to tell your Army whose side I’m on when they start firing.” Jock’s remark broke the ice.
The trio talked late into the night. Steen suggested that weapon training should begin straight away. It was decided that the training could be done along the banks of the Shannon, using the .22’s and the Webley’s, which could be adapted easily to cut down the noise and power.
Although the meeting had a cold start, by 3 a.m., the three had agreed their roles, and Jock Steen was formerly taken into the swelling ranks of the PIRA. Although it would be some time before his existence would be properly announced to other members.
…
Jock Steen was also passing out, his title of ‘sniper’ being confirmed by the senior instructor at the School of Infantry, in Warminster. During his, twenty-four months of military service, he had excelled with the 2nd Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. Known as a ‘sleeper’ by his PIRA handlers, his true name and whereabouts were known only to O’Brien.
Sniper course behind him, Jock travelled to Liverpool, taking advantage of a week’s leave to meet with O’Brien and a high ranking member of the newly formed Provisional Irish Republican Army, (PIRA).
Behind tightly closed doors in the Atlantic Hotel, situated in Chapel Street, Steen met and talked with his handlers.
“ You don’t need to know ma name or where am from, It’ll be better if you only have contact with Patrick here,” The PIRA man’s eyes were tight slits cut into his sharp, face.
Jock looked at O’Brien, taking the broad Northern Irish accent as recognition of the validity of the PIRA official. “I understand.” He said.
“ The skills your learnin’ will help our struggle.” The official continued. “The problem is the British have brought in the MI5 to monitor and follow people like me, so we have no alternative but to keep well out of the way.” He pointed to O’Brien. “ Patrick here has no past, as far as the British intelligence knows, so he’s a very important man.”
“You see Jock, MI5 are beginning to gather intelligence from the province,” O’Brien said, “People like,” he hesitated, “well like him,” he pointed to the stranger, “will be watched.” He continued. “ So it’s important that we can keep you, ‘up our sleeve’, so to speak.”
The stranger leant forward, and held Jock’s forearm, his deep eyes penetrated Jock’s soul “ You are a very important member, of a very important team, your skills will be called upon time after time,” He waited for a moment, his voice lowered menacingly, “let us down and your family will feel the consequences.”
Steen’s body went rigid as the words sank in, his eyes widened and he looked into the sub conscious of the PIRA man. “ Make no mistake, if my family are harmed in any way I’ll…”
O’Brien butted in. “ There’s no way your family will be harmed, their safety is not in question. What my friend here means is that you are in a unique position, these people don’t know you as I do Jock, They’re vulnerable, and don’t know who to trust.” He turned to the PIRA man. “ I’m telling you, this man is not the type who would sell to the highest bidder. I encouraged him to join the British Army, up until that point he was for joining any organisation that would right the wrongs of his Catholic family and the death of his Da’.”
Steen and the PIRA man sat back, each respecting the position of O’Brien.
“What have you for us?” O’Brien continued,
Jock sat silent for a moment and eyed the PIRA man. Letting out a sigh, he went to his briefcase and took out a series of lecture notes used on his sniper’s course, and handed them over.
The PIRA man smiled as he noted the pamphlet’s heading…
‘SCHOOL OF INFANTRY
SNIPER TRAINING
(RESTRICTED)
W02 EVANS
FOR OFFICER COMMANDING’
“ This is exactly what we need Jock,” he said as he thumbed the pages, “of course, we will need to supplement this with practical experience.” He looked straight into Jock Steen’s eyes, “ you are our link, can you come up with the goods? Can you train our active service units?”
“ Sure, he can.” O’Brien intervened. “ Make no mistake, he is more than capable of sharing his experiences with our ‘comrades in arms’ aren’t you Jock?”
Steen nodded as he slid his eyes from the PIRA man to O’Brien.
“As O’Brien knows Jock, we are having problems with weapons, most of the ones we’ve recovered from secret stores are old and rusting.”
“What have you got?” Jock was curious.
“ Well, not much, a few Thompson Sub-machine-guns, two M.1 carbines, a Spanish ‘Star’ automatic pistol, and a German Walther P38, a number of .22 rifles, and five .38 Webley’s”
“ Not much to build an Army, eh Jock.” O’Brien was trying to ease the conversation in the wake of the mistrust of his PIRA contact.
“ We’d appreciate your thoughts on the best weapons for the type of work we’re going to be doin’. We were thinking of Belgium FN’s.”
“ Too long and heavy. The M1’s a good weapon, short and light with plenty of power, makes it an easy weapon to conceal, yet has an effective range of three hundred and thirty yards.”
“The ones we have, we got from friends in America they’re second world war issue,” The PIRA man paused for a moment, “no,” he continued I can’t see us getting enough of them.”
“ In that case, I’d go for the Armalite AR-18, an inch longer, weighing in at 7.75 pounds when it’s loaded, the range increases to around five hundred yards, I’d say it was ideally suited.”
O’Brien put his arm around his protégé’s shoulder tugging him a little. He spoke to his Irish contact. “See, I told you he was good!”
The PIRA man’s stern face mellowed slightly as he responded. “You did indeed, and I can see that your trust has not been misplaced.”
“Anything else?” Jock asked.
“Well we are in a position to buy a number of RPG-7 Portable Rocket Launchers, what’s your thoughts on them?”
“ I have no thoughts, I know nothing about them. Just remember to tell your Army whose side I’m on when they start firing.” Jock’s remark broke the ice.
The trio talked late into the night. Steen suggested that weapon training should begin straight away. It was decided that the training could be done along the banks of the Shannon, using the .22’s and the Webley’s, which could be adapted easily to cut down the noise and power.
Although the meeting had a cold start, by 3 a.m., the three had agreed their roles, and Jock Steen was formerly taken into the swelling ranks of the PIRA. Although it would be some time before his existence would be properly announced to other members.
…
Thursday, 3 June 2010
Derrick Bird
Derrick Bird's multple shootings in Cumbria put my mind back more than twenty years to the day I was interviewed about the shootings in Hungerford. In my mind that event was as new as yesterday's killings. Back then I was writing for Survival Weaponry and Techniques a magazine for the 'would be' survivalist. Hugo Davenport of the Daily Telegraph interviewed me and put it to me that I was teaching military and mercenary techniques and that anyone who wanted to 'make a name' for themselves could use the skills I was writing about to devastating effect! I've thought about that very point hundreds of times since and although I can see the logic my considered opinion now is that it isn't the teacher, the techniques or the weapons it is the person the man, or woman who has to 'vent their anger' show the world that they exist, or simply want to 'have their pound of flesh'.
One of the arguments following these types of incidents is that guns should be banned. Legislation led by similar incidents have seen a tightening of the rules around personal weapons. Hand guns are no longer legally held in private hands. According to the reports Bird has used a shotgun and .22 rifle. Both apparently licensed to him as they are to thgousands of law abiding well balanced citizens across the UK. If Bird didn't have those weapons would he have let what ever motivated him to come to nothing? I doubt it. He would have found another way to make his point. He could have used a home made weapon, a knife, poison, his car. No, my considered position is that allowing individuals to keep guns does not leas to mass killings.
One of the arguments following these types of incidents is that guns should be banned. Legislation led by similar incidents have seen a tightening of the rules around personal weapons. Hand guns are no longer legally held in private hands. According to the reports Bird has used a shotgun and .22 rifle. Both apparently licensed to him as they are to thgousands of law abiding well balanced citizens across the UK. If Bird didn't have those weapons would he have let what ever motivated him to come to nothing? I doubt it. He would have found another way to make his point. He could have used a home made weapon, a knife, poison, his car. No, my considered position is that allowing individuals to keep guns does not leas to mass killings.
Saturday, 22 May 2010
WAIT OUT Part 8 (Boy to Soldier in 6 weks)
…
Months earlier Steen had no such trouble, he’d had to insist that he wanted to join the infantry, his score being much higher than required. Now, at the end of his training he stood on the Parade Square at the Depot of the Queen’s Division, Bassingbourne, facing the Regimental Sergeant Major. If he was to gain the red over white hackle of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers he had to give a good show on the parade square, if not he’d be ‘back squaded’. Remembering the drill, he marched forward, came to a halt, counted in his head, ‘two, three up’, he saluted, ‘two, three down’, he cut the salute, ‘two three about’, ‘two, three, march, left right left’…Perfect! With six weeks more of continuation training Jock had already made his mark and was tipped as a candidate for the sniper course by the Brigade training staff.
CHAPTER TWO
The Green Army
On 1 August 1971 my train pulled away from Stoke station, I watched as my Mum stood with tissue in hand, crying and my Dad stood, virtually to attention, looking very proud.
Someone once said to me ‘ nothing’s new, whatever you’re doing you can be sure someone else is doing the same’. And it’s true. On that morning I sat with Don Green, we had been to infant and junior school together and now, unknown to me, he too had joined the Army, not only that, he’d put in for the RCT.
Before lunch we both arrived at the Recruit Selection Centre’s, St. George’s Barracks Sutton Coldfield. Up until 1968, this had been the Brigade Depot of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. In fact, the camp adjutant and other staff members were still serving with the Regiment, their red and white hackles proudly worn in recognition.
The selection process was simple, fitness assessment sessions by the Physical Training Corps, medical assessment by the Royal Army Medical Corps and education assessment by the Army Education Corps. The first two I flew, the third I faltered, and once again I saw the error of my ways. All of a sudden, there was a question about my ‘fitness’ to serve. I was taken in front of a young, fresh, faced Captain, who read the assessment notes carefully before addressing me.
“I have the power to send you home, or let you through, why should I let you through?” He looked up, waiting for an answer.
‘Fuck knows’ I thought, but then it occurred to me that I’d really enjoyed the four days of selection.
“Well,” I stuttered, “ I’m very fit, the PTI’s said that, also, I’m very healthy, the Medics said that, and,” I hesitated, “I’ve had a great time here.”
The captain smiled, and pointed to his cap badge. “Do you know what badge this is?”
“No sir, I don’t.”
“It’s the badge of the Royal Corps of Transport, the Corps you want to join, my Corps. Your education is lower than the standard required to become a member.”
“I know sir,” I said, “but my Dad was an Army driver and I know I can do it.”
The pondering routine started, the silence seemed to last forever as the captain thumbed through the training records. He sat back in his chair.
“You win,” he said, “don’t let me down.”
I was delighted. For the first time in my life I felt that this was something I must do.
Don, having attended school regularly, breezed through selection and was sent with me to Aldershot’s Buller Barracks.
Buller was a series of three story, grey concrete, flat roofed buildings forming a square overlooking a paved area. Three of the buildings were accommodation blocks, the fourth the NAAFI, Cookhouse and Junior NCO’s Mess. The Administration block stood alone adjacent to the guard house and armoury.
Our training started the minute we arrived. We had to run, or ‘double’ all the time. We spent the first day running between the admin’ block, the stores and the accommodation block. Thirty-four recruits running in all directions, carrying oversized bundles of kit, reminded me of the activity around an ant’s nest. In the accommodation block, the third floor began the day completely empty and lifeless, as the day progressed the nest was built, the line of four man rooms filled and took shape, everything uniformed and regimented.
I was allocated a room with three guys all from London, Steve Bittner, known as Ruby, Barry Pillar and Carl Jackson, Jacko. From the minute we met, we were mates. Don, who, although he’d grown up on the estate, wasn’t at all street-wise and found it difficult to integrate with his room mates. When he got himself into trouble, which he often did, he’d come to me and I usually sorted it out. I hardly had my kit in the room before Don arrived and tried to swap rooms with one of the Londoners. When he realised that they were having none of it he left the room, returning minutes later.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve just seen.” he said excitedly. “There’s a guy in my room with tits!”
“What are you on about?” I asked.
“Tits Griff, the guy’s got tits.”
Needless to say we were all curious and went along to Don’s room, to see for ourselves. Sure enough, there stood John Mountford, a small guy in his late teens, with a white fresh face, dark copper hair, and a fair pair of tits. He was in the middle of getting changed and was really pissed off when he saw us.
“Ok. So I’ve got tits,” He said in a broad Devon accent, “I don’t know why I’ve got them they just developed.”
“Fucking did they.” Don Joked.
“Take the piss and I’ll take yore fuckin’ head off.” Mounty wasn’t kidding.
Don made his way to me, he was just about to come out with one of his inappropriate comments when Barry Pillar stepped in. At six and a half foot, weighing near on fourteen stones people listened.
“ Hang, on, we’re supposed to be a team, if we’re not, we wont get through the training.”
“ Just so you know, the Medics at the Selection Centre are arranging for an operation to have these removed.” With that, ‘Mounty’ closed the door on the conversation.
The following morning set the routine for the next six weeks, up at 6.00 a.m., wash and shave, strip the beds and arrange the bedding into a ‘bed block’, made by folding the sheets and blankets in two foot squares, and arranging them in order, grey blanket, white sheet, grey blanket, white sheet, grey blanket, the resulting sandwich being wrapped with the last grey blanket. A perfect square surmounted by two pillows and placed at the head of the bed on top of a bright coloured ‘counterpane’ which was stretched so tightly over the bed that a coin could be thrown down onto it and spring back to the thrower’s hand. A test, the inspecting officer often used. That done, individual lockers were next. A photocopy plan of the layout was passed around the room. Clothing folded twelve inches by twelve inches, shaving and boot cleaning kits placed in an exact pattern on the shelves. Every locker an exact replica of the next. Floors were swept and polished by swinging heavy metal weights covered with cloth, known as ‘bumpers’. Finally the toilets and wash rooms were made ready, black toilette seats and sink plugs polished with Kiwi boot polish, seats lifted, plugs in unison placed on the right side of the sink. Everything ready for the 7.15 a.m. inspection by the training staff and the duty officer. One thing out of place, one spec of dirt and the whole ‘platoon’ would be made to completely ‘gut’ the block and start again, working into the early hours of the morning to meet the required standard by the next day’s inspection.
Block inspection done we made our way to the parade square being ‘called to order’ at exactly 07.30 a.m. The Regimental Sergeant Major watching with hawk eyes as we came to attention and opened our ranks for inspection. The drill sergeants and training staff walking behind the officers as they inspected every ‘soldier’. The form was the same, day after day, a dirty beret, a twisted boot lace, a smudged uniform brass, or any other little error would land you on fatigues, usually working in the cookhouse, cleaning refuge bins or stripping and cleaning weapons in the Armoury.
Although a Corps, and therefore supposedly less of a soldier, more of a tradesman, the RCT worked on the basis that you were a soldier first and a tradesman second, the training staff were mainly former parachute’ or ‘all arms commando’ trained and so took their soldiering very seriously indeed.
One particular morning, I found this out to my detriment. I hadn’t taken the normal care over my appearance, as I should have done, and a tiny piece of cotton was hanging from one of my shirt buttons. The duty officer pointed at it, glanced to his side, making sure the drill sergeant had seen it and walked to the next man without uttering a word. He didn’t have to, as the sergeant said it all for him.
“What the fackin’ ‘ell is this?” he bellowed. I looked down. “Stand still.” His face was centimetres from mine, I could smell last night’s stale ale as he spit the words in my face. “Break rank, and sort it out.” If he’d have said break wind I could’ve coped, but break ranks? I stumbled around. His face went bright red, veins were pushing through his neck. “Stand to attention you ‘orrible little piece of shit, who do you think you are, a fackin officer.” I was pissed off and he could see it. “Don’t you fackin’ look at me in that tone.” He slid his ‘pace stick’ behind my neck and pulled me forward. “We’ll fackin’ teach you boy, move it…left. Right. Left. Right.” He marched me away at a pace that was so fast I could hardly manage it. He was running alongside, bending forward, watching my every move. The rest of the parade stood motionless. Once again, his face was in mine. “Swing those fackin’ arms.” I tried. “If you don’t swing this arm,” he prodded my right elbow with his stick, “I’m going to rip it off and stick the wet end in your Fackin’ ear.”
‘Comical cunt,’ I thought.
Moments later we arrived at the Armoury. The REME Armourer, a small, blonde, barrel chested corporal greeted us.
“Morning Griffiths,” back again are we.
“Yes Corporal Card,” I said as I stood to attention.
“Work here until after the parade, then join your squad, and report back here at 17.00 hours, you can do some extra duty.” The sergeant ordered.
I’d spent so much time cleaning in the Armoury in the first two weeks of my training, mainly due to my fooling around at the wrong time, that Cpl Card and I were becoming good friends, I was also becoming very proficient in all manner of weapons.
The day had started bad, and it didn’t get any better. Having rejoined my squad, I went back to the armoury, with them and signed out several General Purpose Machine Guns, (GPMG’s). As always we doubled there and back only stopping when we entered the ‘skill at arms’ wing. Sergeant Bob Ackerman and Corporal Chalky White were waiting for us, Minutes later we were deep into the working parts of the weapons, learning how to strip, clean and assemble them. My time in the armoury was put to good use, as I easily stripped and reassembled, to the delight of my mates. I was a ‘cocky sod’ and once again went into play mode to the annoyance of Sergeant Ackerman. I was lying behind the weapon and engaged in a conversation with Don, as Ackerman was in full flow explaining the working parts of the gun. Without breaking sentence he picked up the chalkboard rubber and threw it, accurately hitting me on the head. It was a painful blow and, in a school type reaction, and without thinking I went for him, stopping myself well before I came into contact. Despite this halt, the die was cast, Ackerman took it for the challenge it was.
“You’ve got two choices here son, he said “we either go to the guardroom or you carry on and we’ll finish it behind the assault course wall!” Ackerman was not joking.
I looked him up and down, he stood about five foot eleven inches, in his early thirties, his face was brown and worn, making him look older. He was a very fit guy and judging by the way he stood and his coolness, he’d seen a bit of action. I didn’t realise how much at the time, had I have done, I might have chosen the Guardroom. But I didn’t…I Still fancied myself as a bit of a fighter.
“The wall.” I said.
We went outside and walked over to the assault course, Ackerman was a couple of paces in front of me as we went behind the wall and out of sight of any prying eyes. Typically, I took the advantage and as he was turning to face me, I aimed my boot at his groin. He was hellish quick and stepped out of the way. I’d committed my self to the kick, having missed, I hit the wall, the pain as my toe smashed into it radiated straight up my leg and into my hip. That was the only chance I had. He gave me no time to recover and came at me with a degree of expertise I’d not come across before. He did just enough damage to teach me a lesson, in fact he broke my nose. It was the first time it had been broken, and it hurt like hell. I couldn’t remember much of what went on, as it all happened so quickly. I do remember noticing the wings neatly sewn onto his shirt sleeve as we were walking back, and I recall thinking that they were an unusual shape, that is, not the same as those supplied by the Parachute Regiment. It was some time later, that I found out that these were the wings of the Special Air Service. It wouldn’t have mattered to me if I had known, as at the time I’d never heard of the SAS.
If we weren’t on fatigues, guard duty, cleaning the block or preparing for a last minute show parade on Friday nights we would go down to the NAAFI disco. This was a great night out only spoilt by the fact that most of us were so exhausted that we fell asleep before the end.
A few hundred yards across Buller’s sports field stood the Women’s Royal Army Corps, RCT attached quarters, a building full of young women. Most of who, like us, were looking for a good time. Friday’s Disco was that time. I’d already made a lot of friends there, and now, three days after the fight, I stood by the Bar, the girls were dishing out sympathy, stroking my swollen nose and blackened eyes. I was lapping it up when Ruby Bittner tapped me on the shoulder and nodded towards the entrance. I looked up and saw Ackerman with another rough looking guy approaching. Following the incident I had to go down to the medical centre and so this was the first time I’d seen him since. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. I was sure, however that the two of them had singled me out and were now heading straight for me. I really didn’t feel like another fight but took a breath and stood my ground. Ackerman’s face cracked wide open with a huge smile.
“This is the boy Jock,” he said, “he’s got a lot of bollocks.”
‘Jock’, stuck his hand out grabbing mine, he had a grip like a vice. He was little, about five foot five of six, but well stacked and looking both hard and fit. “You’rrr right laddie?”
“Sorry, I didn’t get that.” I replied.
“Yourrr nose, is it ok.?”
“Oh, yeah fine.”
“What you having to drink Griff?” Ackerman asked
I was taken by surprise, “I’ll have a Newcastle Brown, thanks.” I stuttered
“By the way, meet Sergeant Major Jock Currie, he’s on the training team at Browning.”
Browning Barracks, was the home of the Parachute Regiment and stood across the road from Buller. I was impressed, two Senior NCOs coming into the disco to buy me a drink. I could see the rest of the disco contingent were equally impressed. My status was gaining height by the second as the three of us finished our drinks. Ackerman and Currie decided that they’d continue their drinking bout down the town. I would have liked to go but, the town was out of bounds to new recruits, until after the fifth week when you’d passed the ‘skill at arms’ section of the training. As the two men were leaving Currie was stopped by a lovely looking girl, she was short, had very long dark hair and a wonderful figure. I watched as Jock put his hand in his pocket and handed her a pound note. She threw her arms around him and went back to her dancing, I couldn’t take my eyes off her, she was very sexy, she danced in a circle with her mates and then went over to the bar. I headed for the bar.
“Hi,” I said, “I see you know, old Jock Currie then.” Talking as if I’d known him for years.
“Yeah, do you know him from Browning?” she asked.
I toyed with the idea of saying yes, as it seemed to me, that most of the girls thought the Para’s were something special, but I thought better of it, “No, Ackerman.” I replied.
“ Oh, Uncle Bob.”
“Uncle Bob?”
“Well he’s not really my uncle, but I’ve known him for years, My Dad, Sergeant Major Currie, is his best mate.”
I was pleased I’d decided not to go down the Para’ route. A couple of drinks, and a lot of talking later I decided that I wanted to see more of nineteen year old Senga Currie. In fact, I saw a lot more of her the night after.
I’d arranged to meet her outside the Queen Alexandra Royal Army Nursing Corps barracks, which lay over the hill leading down to Aldershot town centre. It was a well known meeting place as most of the ‘squadies’ ended up with the nurses sooner or later. It was a warm night and we walked over to the training area. I’d already spied a secluded spot for just this type of encounter, when I’d been on one of the daily training runs. A favourite of the PTI’s (Physical Training Instructors) was to run the recruits up and down a steep sandy hill, known as ‘heartbreak hill’. The top of the hill lay just off the road and was easy to get to. In the scrubland around it lay several old concrete bunkers, one had my name on it, and I was in there like a shot.
“It’s dark.” She said.
You’re dead right it’s dark I thought. “Yeah,” I said “but with your Dad being so well known and all, I thought we’d be better having a little kiss and that out of sight.”
“And that?” She asked with a sparkle in her eyes.
‘And that’ happened minutes later on a concrete block. It sealed a relationship that would continue through my training and beyond. I didn’t tell her I was engaged, but then I didn’t tell Dianne back home in Stoke about Senga either.
The morning after I was back into the training routine. Another favourite of the PTI staff was for the squad to run the assault course carrying one of the team. It was my turn to be carried. The lads lifted me up carrying me on their shoulders. One of them, a tall thin ‘loafer’ named Geordie Needle, who no one liked, was hanging back and keeping us from attaining the time set to do the task. We could all see that his attitude would get us extra PT. Barry Pillar grabbed him and pushed him to the carrying team, he argued a bit and then took hold of me. In his temper, his hand missed my shirt and he grabbed a wedge of flesh on my side. I yelped as the pinch set in, and lashed out with my fist, hitting him on the ear. The training team, had made it clear from the start, that any physical aggression between recruits would be sorted, there and then, with the boxing gloves. Sure enough, one of the PTI’s saw the incident and stopped the run. The gloves were always carried and seconds later the lads lined up the to make a boxing ring. As my gloves were being tied, I looked across at Geordie. For the first time I noticed how long his arms were, they swung by his knees. I had a slight doubt about the outcome of this, the doubt got worse when the PTI announced that there was to be no kicking biting, wrestling, or blows below the belt. Gloves tied we were called to the centre, the rules explained, simple first down or bleeding loses.
“Now touch gloves.” The PTI said.
I didn’t bother and pushed past the stunned instructor, to launch my attack. Geordie didn’t stand a chance. I hit him with a hail of punches until he went down. The PTI staff were not amused, two of them pushed me out of the ring, stood me up and gave me the biggest bollocking I’d ever had, each reminding me about sportsmanship and fair play.
‘Who ever heard of fair play in a scrap’ I thought. They obviously had, and to prove it they now ordered the rest of the squad to strip me, which they did. Geordie was the custodian of my clothing and was told to run across the playing fields and back to Buller. This he took great delight in doing as the playing fields were full of WRAC and QARANC’s enjoying a joint games day. Every woman out there laughed and jeered as I ran past, my hands tightly clasped between my legs.
I was beginning to learn. The Army was winning, slowly transforming me from a streetwise lout to a trained soldier. I knew I had changed, when, one day, Don was well into his out of place banter routine and once again turned his attention to Mounty’s tits. This time we were all in the block going through the cleaning and polishing routine. Mounty was bending down without his shirt on. His breasts were hanging loosely. Don walked up and slid his hand down tickling the left one. Mounty went berserk, and launched himself at Don, who, true to form came running to me. This time though, I said nothing and moved aside giving Mounty a clear view of his prey, and he took advantage, smacking Don straight in the mouth. He went down like a lead balloon and lay semi-conscious on the floor. Mounty walked away, cool as you like, without saying a word. Don came around and weakly gave an apology to Mounty. Like most people in the forces, Don learned his lesson, the out of place banter giving way to a more acceptable verbal exchange from then on.
For those who can’t, or won’t learn the lessons, the Army weeds them out. And at the end of the fourth week two recruits had been discharged, two had been ‘back squaded’ and one was in hospital having fallen off the assault course wall and broken his leg.
Thirty of us boarded the transport for the fifth week ‘skill at arms’ tests on Salisbury Plains. A failure here meant either being back squaded or out all together, a pass meant a week-end leave and a travel warrant home, and of course the big prize, being allowed in to Aldershot town.
For five days we lived and worked under combat conditions, sleeping out in the open, digging fire trenches, eating compo’, rations, warmed on makeshift stoves. All the soldiering skills we’d learned in Aldershot were now put to the test. We spent hours, live firing on the ranges, using a host of weapons and grenades. Throughout, we were in full combat kit and camouflage. Every night saw us in a new location, ‘digging in’ and posting sentries in rotas of two hours on and two hours off, throughout the night. The training staff posed as our enemy, throwing thunder-flashes and setting ambushes and booby traps. In four days, we hardly slept. On the fifth and final day, we were tested…
At 5.00 a.m. a thunder-flash landed, the explosion signalling the need for a quick evacuation from the camp. Without time to recover from the un-timely exodus, we went strait into a forced, march and run, over a ten mile route, carrying full kit, and map reading our way around, then onto and over the assault course, each of us carrying one of the guys for two hundred yards, before a run down to the ranges and firing, at an assortment of targets from different distances, ending up with, an attack and capture of the training team’s transport. The lack of sleep and poor diet took its toll. We were absolutely bushed before we started, by the time we’d finished, we were, well fucked! I loved it and excelled throughout.
The day after I arrived home on leave and went straight to the pub. I suppose I should have gone to see Dianne, but couldn’t be bothered, although we were still engaged, I didn’t have much time for our relationship.
In the pub several of the old gang were there, sitting at the same table, talking about the same things. I had lost weight and gained muscle, I was smart, tanned and full of it. I lasted an hour before I realised that I was talking a different language, from a different planet. I went to see Dianne.
I hadn’t told her I was coming home, so she was surprised when I turned up. Her parent’s had gone to the local Working Men’s Club for the normal Saturday night cabaret. We took the opportunity and went to bed. It was nothing special, but then again, neither was the relationship. I was making love to Dianne, thinking about Senga, it was absurd, but I carried on, as you do.
Later, I sat with her and watched the TV news, it was full of reports from Northern Ireland. The British Government had introduced internment, and troops were coming under increasing violence as the problems escalated. Being in the Army meant that the general talk centred around armed conflict. Earlier in the year, the first British soldier, had been shot and killed as he patrolled the streets of Northern Ireland. Every time we picked up a weapon, the staff reminded us that our lives may depend on how good our weapon handling was. It hadn’t really meant that much to me but now, on leave, people were asking me how I felt about serving in Ireland and I began to realise the importance of it all. Dianne’s Mum and Dad were no exception, when they returned from the club their conversation was about nothing else. Dianne, took the whole thing to heart and was openly worried about me. So much so, that she shed a tear as we kissed good night.
My parents lived about a quarter of a mile away from Dianne. As I walked home, I reflected on the few weeks I’d been away and how things had changed. The Army in Belfast hung in the back of my mind, overshadowed by the thought of one more week of basic training and my need to succeed to my passing out.
On Friday of the following week, my family arrived at Aldershot to watch my passing out parade. We didn’t have a car so my Dad hired one and packed it full, with my Mum, Sister, Brother in Law, Grand Mother and Dianne, very dodgy, as Senga had also decided to turn up.
They all watched with delight as I marched around with my squad, to the beat of the Corps of Drums band. The Corps’ tune, ‘The Waggoner’ reminding my Dad of his former service.
Passing out, completed we marched off the parade square and lined up out of site of the public. The Drum Major addressed us, and asked if anyone could play the drums.
Don stuck his hand high in the air. “Yes Sir,” he said “I can, I used to play with the Boy’s Brigade.”
I often wondered whether Don regretted that, as following our three week leave, he was put into the Corp of Drums and spent the next six years beating his drum at Buller and every Military Tattoo and Passing Out Parade the Drum Major could find.
Months earlier Steen had no such trouble, he’d had to insist that he wanted to join the infantry, his score being much higher than required. Now, at the end of his training he stood on the Parade Square at the Depot of the Queen’s Division, Bassingbourne, facing the Regimental Sergeant Major. If he was to gain the red over white hackle of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers he had to give a good show on the parade square, if not he’d be ‘back squaded’. Remembering the drill, he marched forward, came to a halt, counted in his head, ‘two, three up’, he saluted, ‘two, three down’, he cut the salute, ‘two three about’, ‘two, three, march, left right left’…Perfect! With six weeks more of continuation training Jock had already made his mark and was tipped as a candidate for the sniper course by the Brigade training staff.
CHAPTER TWO
The Green Army
On 1 August 1971 my train pulled away from Stoke station, I watched as my Mum stood with tissue in hand, crying and my Dad stood, virtually to attention, looking very proud.
Someone once said to me ‘ nothing’s new, whatever you’re doing you can be sure someone else is doing the same’. And it’s true. On that morning I sat with Don Green, we had been to infant and junior school together and now, unknown to me, he too had joined the Army, not only that, he’d put in for the RCT.
Before lunch we both arrived at the Recruit Selection Centre’s, St. George’s Barracks Sutton Coldfield. Up until 1968, this had been the Brigade Depot of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. In fact, the camp adjutant and other staff members were still serving with the Regiment, their red and white hackles proudly worn in recognition.
The selection process was simple, fitness assessment sessions by the Physical Training Corps, medical assessment by the Royal Army Medical Corps and education assessment by the Army Education Corps. The first two I flew, the third I faltered, and once again I saw the error of my ways. All of a sudden, there was a question about my ‘fitness’ to serve. I was taken in front of a young, fresh, faced Captain, who read the assessment notes carefully before addressing me.
“I have the power to send you home, or let you through, why should I let you through?” He looked up, waiting for an answer.
‘Fuck knows’ I thought, but then it occurred to me that I’d really enjoyed the four days of selection.
“Well,” I stuttered, “ I’m very fit, the PTI’s said that, also, I’m very healthy, the Medics said that, and,” I hesitated, “I’ve had a great time here.”
The captain smiled, and pointed to his cap badge. “Do you know what badge this is?”
“No sir, I don’t.”
“It’s the badge of the Royal Corps of Transport, the Corps you want to join, my Corps. Your education is lower than the standard required to become a member.”
“I know sir,” I said, “but my Dad was an Army driver and I know I can do it.”
The pondering routine started, the silence seemed to last forever as the captain thumbed through the training records. He sat back in his chair.
“You win,” he said, “don’t let me down.”
I was delighted. For the first time in my life I felt that this was something I must do.
Don, having attended school regularly, breezed through selection and was sent with me to Aldershot’s Buller Barracks.
Buller was a series of three story, grey concrete, flat roofed buildings forming a square overlooking a paved area. Three of the buildings were accommodation blocks, the fourth the NAAFI, Cookhouse and Junior NCO’s Mess. The Administration block stood alone adjacent to the guard house and armoury.
Our training started the minute we arrived. We had to run, or ‘double’ all the time. We spent the first day running between the admin’ block, the stores and the accommodation block. Thirty-four recruits running in all directions, carrying oversized bundles of kit, reminded me of the activity around an ant’s nest. In the accommodation block, the third floor began the day completely empty and lifeless, as the day progressed the nest was built, the line of four man rooms filled and took shape, everything uniformed and regimented.
I was allocated a room with three guys all from London, Steve Bittner, known as Ruby, Barry Pillar and Carl Jackson, Jacko. From the minute we met, we were mates. Don, who, although he’d grown up on the estate, wasn’t at all street-wise and found it difficult to integrate with his room mates. When he got himself into trouble, which he often did, he’d come to me and I usually sorted it out. I hardly had my kit in the room before Don arrived and tried to swap rooms with one of the Londoners. When he realised that they were having none of it he left the room, returning minutes later.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve just seen.” he said excitedly. “There’s a guy in my room with tits!”
“What are you on about?” I asked.
“Tits Griff, the guy’s got tits.”
Needless to say we were all curious and went along to Don’s room, to see for ourselves. Sure enough, there stood John Mountford, a small guy in his late teens, with a white fresh face, dark copper hair, and a fair pair of tits. He was in the middle of getting changed and was really pissed off when he saw us.
“Ok. So I’ve got tits,” He said in a broad Devon accent, “I don’t know why I’ve got them they just developed.”
“Fucking did they.” Don Joked.
“Take the piss and I’ll take yore fuckin’ head off.” Mounty wasn’t kidding.
Don made his way to me, he was just about to come out with one of his inappropriate comments when Barry Pillar stepped in. At six and a half foot, weighing near on fourteen stones people listened.
“ Hang, on, we’re supposed to be a team, if we’re not, we wont get through the training.”
“ Just so you know, the Medics at the Selection Centre are arranging for an operation to have these removed.” With that, ‘Mounty’ closed the door on the conversation.
The following morning set the routine for the next six weeks, up at 6.00 a.m., wash and shave, strip the beds and arrange the bedding into a ‘bed block’, made by folding the sheets and blankets in two foot squares, and arranging them in order, grey blanket, white sheet, grey blanket, white sheet, grey blanket, the resulting sandwich being wrapped with the last grey blanket. A perfect square surmounted by two pillows and placed at the head of the bed on top of a bright coloured ‘counterpane’ which was stretched so tightly over the bed that a coin could be thrown down onto it and spring back to the thrower’s hand. A test, the inspecting officer often used. That done, individual lockers were next. A photocopy plan of the layout was passed around the room. Clothing folded twelve inches by twelve inches, shaving and boot cleaning kits placed in an exact pattern on the shelves. Every locker an exact replica of the next. Floors were swept and polished by swinging heavy metal weights covered with cloth, known as ‘bumpers’. Finally the toilets and wash rooms were made ready, black toilette seats and sink plugs polished with Kiwi boot polish, seats lifted, plugs in unison placed on the right side of the sink. Everything ready for the 7.15 a.m. inspection by the training staff and the duty officer. One thing out of place, one spec of dirt and the whole ‘platoon’ would be made to completely ‘gut’ the block and start again, working into the early hours of the morning to meet the required standard by the next day’s inspection.
Block inspection done we made our way to the parade square being ‘called to order’ at exactly 07.30 a.m. The Regimental Sergeant Major watching with hawk eyes as we came to attention and opened our ranks for inspection. The drill sergeants and training staff walking behind the officers as they inspected every ‘soldier’. The form was the same, day after day, a dirty beret, a twisted boot lace, a smudged uniform brass, or any other little error would land you on fatigues, usually working in the cookhouse, cleaning refuge bins or stripping and cleaning weapons in the Armoury.
Although a Corps, and therefore supposedly less of a soldier, more of a tradesman, the RCT worked on the basis that you were a soldier first and a tradesman second, the training staff were mainly former parachute’ or ‘all arms commando’ trained and so took their soldiering very seriously indeed.
One particular morning, I found this out to my detriment. I hadn’t taken the normal care over my appearance, as I should have done, and a tiny piece of cotton was hanging from one of my shirt buttons. The duty officer pointed at it, glanced to his side, making sure the drill sergeant had seen it and walked to the next man without uttering a word. He didn’t have to, as the sergeant said it all for him.
“What the fackin’ ‘ell is this?” he bellowed. I looked down. “Stand still.” His face was centimetres from mine, I could smell last night’s stale ale as he spit the words in my face. “Break rank, and sort it out.” If he’d have said break wind I could’ve coped, but break ranks? I stumbled around. His face went bright red, veins were pushing through his neck. “Stand to attention you ‘orrible little piece of shit, who do you think you are, a fackin officer.” I was pissed off and he could see it. “Don’t you fackin’ look at me in that tone.” He slid his ‘pace stick’ behind my neck and pulled me forward. “We’ll fackin’ teach you boy, move it…left. Right. Left. Right.” He marched me away at a pace that was so fast I could hardly manage it. He was running alongside, bending forward, watching my every move. The rest of the parade stood motionless. Once again, his face was in mine. “Swing those fackin’ arms.” I tried. “If you don’t swing this arm,” he prodded my right elbow with his stick, “I’m going to rip it off and stick the wet end in your Fackin’ ear.”
‘Comical cunt,’ I thought.
Moments later we arrived at the Armoury. The REME Armourer, a small, blonde, barrel chested corporal greeted us.
“Morning Griffiths,” back again are we.
“Yes Corporal Card,” I said as I stood to attention.
“Work here until after the parade, then join your squad, and report back here at 17.00 hours, you can do some extra duty.” The sergeant ordered.
I’d spent so much time cleaning in the Armoury in the first two weeks of my training, mainly due to my fooling around at the wrong time, that Cpl Card and I were becoming good friends, I was also becoming very proficient in all manner of weapons.
The day had started bad, and it didn’t get any better. Having rejoined my squad, I went back to the armoury, with them and signed out several General Purpose Machine Guns, (GPMG’s). As always we doubled there and back only stopping when we entered the ‘skill at arms’ wing. Sergeant Bob Ackerman and Corporal Chalky White were waiting for us, Minutes later we were deep into the working parts of the weapons, learning how to strip, clean and assemble them. My time in the armoury was put to good use, as I easily stripped and reassembled, to the delight of my mates. I was a ‘cocky sod’ and once again went into play mode to the annoyance of Sergeant Ackerman. I was lying behind the weapon and engaged in a conversation with Don, as Ackerman was in full flow explaining the working parts of the gun. Without breaking sentence he picked up the chalkboard rubber and threw it, accurately hitting me on the head. It was a painful blow and, in a school type reaction, and without thinking I went for him, stopping myself well before I came into contact. Despite this halt, the die was cast, Ackerman took it for the challenge it was.
“You’ve got two choices here son, he said “we either go to the guardroom or you carry on and we’ll finish it behind the assault course wall!” Ackerman was not joking.
I looked him up and down, he stood about five foot eleven inches, in his early thirties, his face was brown and worn, making him look older. He was a very fit guy and judging by the way he stood and his coolness, he’d seen a bit of action. I didn’t realise how much at the time, had I have done, I might have chosen the Guardroom. But I didn’t…I Still fancied myself as a bit of a fighter.
“The wall.” I said.
We went outside and walked over to the assault course, Ackerman was a couple of paces in front of me as we went behind the wall and out of sight of any prying eyes. Typically, I took the advantage and as he was turning to face me, I aimed my boot at his groin. He was hellish quick and stepped out of the way. I’d committed my self to the kick, having missed, I hit the wall, the pain as my toe smashed into it radiated straight up my leg and into my hip. That was the only chance I had. He gave me no time to recover and came at me with a degree of expertise I’d not come across before. He did just enough damage to teach me a lesson, in fact he broke my nose. It was the first time it had been broken, and it hurt like hell. I couldn’t remember much of what went on, as it all happened so quickly. I do remember noticing the wings neatly sewn onto his shirt sleeve as we were walking back, and I recall thinking that they were an unusual shape, that is, not the same as those supplied by the Parachute Regiment. It was some time later, that I found out that these were the wings of the Special Air Service. It wouldn’t have mattered to me if I had known, as at the time I’d never heard of the SAS.
If we weren’t on fatigues, guard duty, cleaning the block or preparing for a last minute show parade on Friday nights we would go down to the NAAFI disco. This was a great night out only spoilt by the fact that most of us were so exhausted that we fell asleep before the end.
A few hundred yards across Buller’s sports field stood the Women’s Royal Army Corps, RCT attached quarters, a building full of young women. Most of who, like us, were looking for a good time. Friday’s Disco was that time. I’d already made a lot of friends there, and now, three days after the fight, I stood by the Bar, the girls were dishing out sympathy, stroking my swollen nose and blackened eyes. I was lapping it up when Ruby Bittner tapped me on the shoulder and nodded towards the entrance. I looked up and saw Ackerman with another rough looking guy approaching. Following the incident I had to go down to the medical centre and so this was the first time I’d seen him since. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. I was sure, however that the two of them had singled me out and were now heading straight for me. I really didn’t feel like another fight but took a breath and stood my ground. Ackerman’s face cracked wide open with a huge smile.
“This is the boy Jock,” he said, “he’s got a lot of bollocks.”
‘Jock’, stuck his hand out grabbing mine, he had a grip like a vice. He was little, about five foot five of six, but well stacked and looking both hard and fit. “You’rrr right laddie?”
“Sorry, I didn’t get that.” I replied.
“Yourrr nose, is it ok.?”
“Oh, yeah fine.”
“What you having to drink Griff?” Ackerman asked
I was taken by surprise, “I’ll have a Newcastle Brown, thanks.” I stuttered
“By the way, meet Sergeant Major Jock Currie, he’s on the training team at Browning.”
Browning Barracks, was the home of the Parachute Regiment and stood across the road from Buller. I was impressed, two Senior NCOs coming into the disco to buy me a drink. I could see the rest of the disco contingent were equally impressed. My status was gaining height by the second as the three of us finished our drinks. Ackerman and Currie decided that they’d continue their drinking bout down the town. I would have liked to go but, the town was out of bounds to new recruits, until after the fifth week when you’d passed the ‘skill at arms’ section of the training. As the two men were leaving Currie was stopped by a lovely looking girl, she was short, had very long dark hair and a wonderful figure. I watched as Jock put his hand in his pocket and handed her a pound note. She threw her arms around him and went back to her dancing, I couldn’t take my eyes off her, she was very sexy, she danced in a circle with her mates and then went over to the bar. I headed for the bar.
“Hi,” I said, “I see you know, old Jock Currie then.” Talking as if I’d known him for years.
“Yeah, do you know him from Browning?” she asked.
I toyed with the idea of saying yes, as it seemed to me, that most of the girls thought the Para’s were something special, but I thought better of it, “No, Ackerman.” I replied.
“ Oh, Uncle Bob.”
“Uncle Bob?”
“Well he’s not really my uncle, but I’ve known him for years, My Dad, Sergeant Major Currie, is his best mate.”
I was pleased I’d decided not to go down the Para’ route. A couple of drinks, and a lot of talking later I decided that I wanted to see more of nineteen year old Senga Currie. In fact, I saw a lot more of her the night after.
I’d arranged to meet her outside the Queen Alexandra Royal Army Nursing Corps barracks, which lay over the hill leading down to Aldershot town centre. It was a well known meeting place as most of the ‘squadies’ ended up with the nurses sooner or later. It was a warm night and we walked over to the training area. I’d already spied a secluded spot for just this type of encounter, when I’d been on one of the daily training runs. A favourite of the PTI’s (Physical Training Instructors) was to run the recruits up and down a steep sandy hill, known as ‘heartbreak hill’. The top of the hill lay just off the road and was easy to get to. In the scrubland around it lay several old concrete bunkers, one had my name on it, and I was in there like a shot.
“It’s dark.” She said.
You’re dead right it’s dark I thought. “Yeah,” I said “but with your Dad being so well known and all, I thought we’d be better having a little kiss and that out of sight.”
“And that?” She asked with a sparkle in her eyes.
‘And that’ happened minutes later on a concrete block. It sealed a relationship that would continue through my training and beyond. I didn’t tell her I was engaged, but then I didn’t tell Dianne back home in Stoke about Senga either.
The morning after I was back into the training routine. Another favourite of the PTI staff was for the squad to run the assault course carrying one of the team. It was my turn to be carried. The lads lifted me up carrying me on their shoulders. One of them, a tall thin ‘loafer’ named Geordie Needle, who no one liked, was hanging back and keeping us from attaining the time set to do the task. We could all see that his attitude would get us extra PT. Barry Pillar grabbed him and pushed him to the carrying team, he argued a bit and then took hold of me. In his temper, his hand missed my shirt and he grabbed a wedge of flesh on my side. I yelped as the pinch set in, and lashed out with my fist, hitting him on the ear. The training team, had made it clear from the start, that any physical aggression between recruits would be sorted, there and then, with the boxing gloves. Sure enough, one of the PTI’s saw the incident and stopped the run. The gloves were always carried and seconds later the lads lined up the to make a boxing ring. As my gloves were being tied, I looked across at Geordie. For the first time I noticed how long his arms were, they swung by his knees. I had a slight doubt about the outcome of this, the doubt got worse when the PTI announced that there was to be no kicking biting, wrestling, or blows below the belt. Gloves tied we were called to the centre, the rules explained, simple first down or bleeding loses.
“Now touch gloves.” The PTI said.
I didn’t bother and pushed past the stunned instructor, to launch my attack. Geordie didn’t stand a chance. I hit him with a hail of punches until he went down. The PTI staff were not amused, two of them pushed me out of the ring, stood me up and gave me the biggest bollocking I’d ever had, each reminding me about sportsmanship and fair play.
‘Who ever heard of fair play in a scrap’ I thought. They obviously had, and to prove it they now ordered the rest of the squad to strip me, which they did. Geordie was the custodian of my clothing and was told to run across the playing fields and back to Buller. This he took great delight in doing as the playing fields were full of WRAC and QARANC’s enjoying a joint games day. Every woman out there laughed and jeered as I ran past, my hands tightly clasped between my legs.
I was beginning to learn. The Army was winning, slowly transforming me from a streetwise lout to a trained soldier. I knew I had changed, when, one day, Don was well into his out of place banter routine and once again turned his attention to Mounty’s tits. This time we were all in the block going through the cleaning and polishing routine. Mounty was bending down without his shirt on. His breasts were hanging loosely. Don walked up and slid his hand down tickling the left one. Mounty went berserk, and launched himself at Don, who, true to form came running to me. This time though, I said nothing and moved aside giving Mounty a clear view of his prey, and he took advantage, smacking Don straight in the mouth. He went down like a lead balloon and lay semi-conscious on the floor. Mounty walked away, cool as you like, without saying a word. Don came around and weakly gave an apology to Mounty. Like most people in the forces, Don learned his lesson, the out of place banter giving way to a more acceptable verbal exchange from then on.
For those who can’t, or won’t learn the lessons, the Army weeds them out. And at the end of the fourth week two recruits had been discharged, two had been ‘back squaded’ and one was in hospital having fallen off the assault course wall and broken his leg.
Thirty of us boarded the transport for the fifth week ‘skill at arms’ tests on Salisbury Plains. A failure here meant either being back squaded or out all together, a pass meant a week-end leave and a travel warrant home, and of course the big prize, being allowed in to Aldershot town.
For five days we lived and worked under combat conditions, sleeping out in the open, digging fire trenches, eating compo’, rations, warmed on makeshift stoves. All the soldiering skills we’d learned in Aldershot were now put to the test. We spent hours, live firing on the ranges, using a host of weapons and grenades. Throughout, we were in full combat kit and camouflage. Every night saw us in a new location, ‘digging in’ and posting sentries in rotas of two hours on and two hours off, throughout the night. The training staff posed as our enemy, throwing thunder-flashes and setting ambushes and booby traps. In four days, we hardly slept. On the fifth and final day, we were tested…
At 5.00 a.m. a thunder-flash landed, the explosion signalling the need for a quick evacuation from the camp. Without time to recover from the un-timely exodus, we went strait into a forced, march and run, over a ten mile route, carrying full kit, and map reading our way around, then onto and over the assault course, each of us carrying one of the guys for two hundred yards, before a run down to the ranges and firing, at an assortment of targets from different distances, ending up with, an attack and capture of the training team’s transport. The lack of sleep and poor diet took its toll. We were absolutely bushed before we started, by the time we’d finished, we were, well fucked! I loved it and excelled throughout.
The day after I arrived home on leave and went straight to the pub. I suppose I should have gone to see Dianne, but couldn’t be bothered, although we were still engaged, I didn’t have much time for our relationship.
In the pub several of the old gang were there, sitting at the same table, talking about the same things. I had lost weight and gained muscle, I was smart, tanned and full of it. I lasted an hour before I realised that I was talking a different language, from a different planet. I went to see Dianne.
I hadn’t told her I was coming home, so she was surprised when I turned up. Her parent’s had gone to the local Working Men’s Club for the normal Saturday night cabaret. We took the opportunity and went to bed. It was nothing special, but then again, neither was the relationship. I was making love to Dianne, thinking about Senga, it was absurd, but I carried on, as you do.
Later, I sat with her and watched the TV news, it was full of reports from Northern Ireland. The British Government had introduced internment, and troops were coming under increasing violence as the problems escalated. Being in the Army meant that the general talk centred around armed conflict. Earlier in the year, the first British soldier, had been shot and killed as he patrolled the streets of Northern Ireland. Every time we picked up a weapon, the staff reminded us that our lives may depend on how good our weapon handling was. It hadn’t really meant that much to me but now, on leave, people were asking me how I felt about serving in Ireland and I began to realise the importance of it all. Dianne’s Mum and Dad were no exception, when they returned from the club their conversation was about nothing else. Dianne, took the whole thing to heart and was openly worried about me. So much so, that she shed a tear as we kissed good night.
My parents lived about a quarter of a mile away from Dianne. As I walked home, I reflected on the few weeks I’d been away and how things had changed. The Army in Belfast hung in the back of my mind, overshadowed by the thought of one more week of basic training and my need to succeed to my passing out.
On Friday of the following week, my family arrived at Aldershot to watch my passing out parade. We didn’t have a car so my Dad hired one and packed it full, with my Mum, Sister, Brother in Law, Grand Mother and Dianne, very dodgy, as Senga had also decided to turn up.
They all watched with delight as I marched around with my squad, to the beat of the Corps of Drums band. The Corps’ tune, ‘The Waggoner’ reminding my Dad of his former service.
Passing out, completed we marched off the parade square and lined up out of site of the public. The Drum Major addressed us, and asked if anyone could play the drums.
Don stuck his hand high in the air. “Yes Sir,” he said “I can, I used to play with the Boy’s Brigade.”
I often wondered whether Don regretted that, as following our three week leave, he was put into the Corp of Drums and spent the next six years beating his drum at Buller and every Military Tattoo and Passing Out Parade the Drum Major could find.
Monday, 26 April 2010
Wait Out part 7
…
It was a tradition at my school that, on the last day the leavers were invited onto the stage where they sat through the morning assembly, until the Headmaster, eventually acknowledged them as ‘young men and women taking the next step of their lives’. Following his usual speech, he would invite them all back to join the School Youth Club. I sat gazing into space, as usual, until I heard him call my name. Stunned, I responded to his beckoning, left my seat, and went forward.
“You may of course end up as master Griffiths has,” he stood me in front of him facing the sea of fresh faces gripping my shoulders tightly. I went ‘beetroot’ every eye in the place fixed me, he continued, “unable to read, unable to write, a truant, a criminal, a thoroughly bad lot, and a person who will not be allowed back over the threshold of this school ever again.” He looked around finding the face of Mr Wilson the History teacher. “Mr Wilson, take this boy away,” he ordered, “and escort him off the premises immediately.”
I couldn’t say a thing, I was so shocked. Within seconds I was marched from the Hall and deposited outside the school gate. Moments later, I stood alone, leaving certificate in hand and watched as Mr Wilson made his way along the drive and back to the Hall.
That was the first time I realised the error of my ways, the second came two weeks later when I went for a job interview as an apprentice welder with a local sheet metal works.
I arrived at the works on time, feeling very confident and met up with several other young hopefuls. We were taken to a classroom and sat at individual desks each with a set of papers turned face down. Moments later the personnel manager arrived and told us to turn the papers over. I did, my eyes met a sheet of ‘mumbo jumbo’. Once he announced that the ‘test’ had to be completed in twenty minutes, I’d lost it. In that second, all the confidence I came in with left me. I looked around as everyone else dipped their heads and became engrossed in the task, I watched as pencils quivered into action. I sat, for what seemed like an age, I looked at the paper and nothing happened, how could it? In desperation I stood up and ran for the door leaving the welding job behind.
For the next eighteen months I moved from Job to Job, a building site labourer one week, a warehouse worker the next, in that short period of time I left, or was sacked, from no fewer than fifteen jobs.
One Friday night I sat caressing a pint of Double Diamond bitter in the Spring Cottage pub and looked around, the gang sat with me, all of them were working, one, ‘Rolls’, had even managed to get the welding job. The conversation turned to travel everyone saying they’d travel the world, ‘let’s go to Africa’ one would say, ‘let’s go to Australia’ said another, in the end I got pissed off and said, “lets have a bet. I bet that I’ll travel further in the next three years than any one else here.” The bet was on.
“And how are your going to do that?” Asked Jed.
“Simple I said, I’m joining the Army.”
Bright and early Monday morning I presented myself at the Army careers office. A small, fit, looking sergeant sat at the reception desk and took some details from me before pointing to a steel bar fixed across a doorway leading to an office.
“How many times do you think you can pull yourself up on that bar over there?”
“Dunno.” I answered.
“Well, you have to be able to do at least ten, if you can’t, then we don’t go any further,” he pointed to the bar again, “off you go.” He said.
Ten was no problem. At twenty-five he stopped me. We carried on with the ‘selection’. He asked the questions, I answered, and he ticked or crossed little boxes. When it came to the question of which part of the Army I wanted to join I hadn’t got a clue and stumbled for an answer.
“Was your Dad in the Army?”
“Yes” I said “he was a driver.”
“That’s it then, The Royal Corps of Transport, same as me he said.”
“Did you know my Dad?” Stupid question I realised.
He looked up from his notes, his face said it all, he shook his head and carried on.
“Ok, the way it works is this, you take a short test.” He noted the change, “What’s the matter?” I didn’t answer, “Problem with the test is it,” he continued, “well it isn’t a test as you know them, there’s no pass or fail, you answer the questions and this gives me a score, the higher the score the more opportunities.”
I wasn’t convinced. Once again, I sat at a desk looking at a piece of paper, and once again, I didn’t have a clue.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes to answer as many questions as possible.” The sergeant clicked his stopwatch. “Off you go.”
I put my finger under the first word of the first page and read it slowly to my self, then I moved to the second and third. Click, I heard the stopwatch.
“Can you read?”
“Yeah, but not too good.”
“ I shouldn’t do this, but I will, I’ll read you the question to save a bit of time and you give me the answer.”
Fifteen minutes later the clock stopped for a second time. The sergeant measured my score.
“Well, your score indicates either a light infantry role or, if you want a Corps, it’d have to be the Pioneer Corps.” He sat back in his seat, interlaced his fingers behind his head, and pondered for a moment. “I’ll stick my neck out,” he said as he moved forward, “I’ll put you down for the RCT and let the recruit selection sort it ou
It was a tradition at my school that, on the last day the leavers were invited onto the stage where they sat through the morning assembly, until the Headmaster, eventually acknowledged them as ‘young men and women taking the next step of their lives’. Following his usual speech, he would invite them all back to join the School Youth Club. I sat gazing into space, as usual, until I heard him call my name. Stunned, I responded to his beckoning, left my seat, and went forward.
“You may of course end up as master Griffiths has,” he stood me in front of him facing the sea of fresh faces gripping my shoulders tightly. I went ‘beetroot’ every eye in the place fixed me, he continued, “unable to read, unable to write, a truant, a criminal, a thoroughly bad lot, and a person who will not be allowed back over the threshold of this school ever again.” He looked around finding the face of Mr Wilson the History teacher. “Mr Wilson, take this boy away,” he ordered, “and escort him off the premises immediately.”
I couldn’t say a thing, I was so shocked. Within seconds I was marched from the Hall and deposited outside the school gate. Moments later, I stood alone, leaving certificate in hand and watched as Mr Wilson made his way along the drive and back to the Hall.
That was the first time I realised the error of my ways, the second came two weeks later when I went for a job interview as an apprentice welder with a local sheet metal works.
I arrived at the works on time, feeling very confident and met up with several other young hopefuls. We were taken to a classroom and sat at individual desks each with a set of papers turned face down. Moments later the personnel manager arrived and told us to turn the papers over. I did, my eyes met a sheet of ‘mumbo jumbo’. Once he announced that the ‘test’ had to be completed in twenty minutes, I’d lost it. In that second, all the confidence I came in with left me. I looked around as everyone else dipped their heads and became engrossed in the task, I watched as pencils quivered into action. I sat, for what seemed like an age, I looked at the paper and nothing happened, how could it? In desperation I stood up and ran for the door leaving the welding job behind.
For the next eighteen months I moved from Job to Job, a building site labourer one week, a warehouse worker the next, in that short period of time I left, or was sacked, from no fewer than fifteen jobs.
One Friday night I sat caressing a pint of Double Diamond bitter in the Spring Cottage pub and looked around, the gang sat with me, all of them were working, one, ‘Rolls’, had even managed to get the welding job. The conversation turned to travel everyone saying they’d travel the world, ‘let’s go to Africa’ one would say, ‘let’s go to Australia’ said another, in the end I got pissed off and said, “lets have a bet. I bet that I’ll travel further in the next three years than any one else here.” The bet was on.
“And how are your going to do that?” Asked Jed.
“Simple I said, I’m joining the Army.”
Bright and early Monday morning I presented myself at the Army careers office. A small, fit, looking sergeant sat at the reception desk and took some details from me before pointing to a steel bar fixed across a doorway leading to an office.
“How many times do you think you can pull yourself up on that bar over there?”
“Dunno.” I answered.
“Well, you have to be able to do at least ten, if you can’t, then we don’t go any further,” he pointed to the bar again, “off you go.” He said.
Ten was no problem. At twenty-five he stopped me. We carried on with the ‘selection’. He asked the questions, I answered, and he ticked or crossed little boxes. When it came to the question of which part of the Army I wanted to join I hadn’t got a clue and stumbled for an answer.
“Was your Dad in the Army?”
“Yes” I said “he was a driver.”
“That’s it then, The Royal Corps of Transport, same as me he said.”
“Did you know my Dad?” Stupid question I realised.
He looked up from his notes, his face said it all, he shook his head and carried on.
“Ok, the way it works is this, you take a short test.” He noted the change, “What’s the matter?” I didn’t answer, “Problem with the test is it,” he continued, “well it isn’t a test as you know them, there’s no pass or fail, you answer the questions and this gives me a score, the higher the score the more opportunities.”
I wasn’t convinced. Once again, I sat at a desk looking at a piece of paper, and once again, I didn’t have a clue.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes to answer as many questions as possible.” The sergeant clicked his stopwatch. “Off you go.”
I put my finger under the first word of the first page and read it slowly to my self, then I moved to the second and third. Click, I heard the stopwatch.
“Can you read?”
“Yeah, but not too good.”
“ I shouldn’t do this, but I will, I’ll read you the question to save a bit of time and you give me the answer.”
Fifteen minutes later the clock stopped for a second time. The sergeant measured my score.
“Well, your score indicates either a light infantry role or, if you want a Corps, it’d have to be the Pioneer Corps.” He sat back in his seat, interlaced his fingers behind his head, and pondered for a moment. “I’ll stick my neck out,” he said as he moved forward, “I’ll put you down for the RCT and let the recruit selection sort it ou
Sunday, 11 April 2010
WAIT OUT Part 6 (Boy Soldiers)
Steen looked around making sure no one was watching, satisfied, he held the sheep firmly on the killing cradle, he took one more look around, reached for his boning knife and plunged it deep into the side of its neck, the sheep struggled, its eyes rolling as its life blood ran away.
“Did ya, stun that ewe before ya killed her?”
Jock was surprised by the Forman’s appearance. Looking him straight in the eye, he answered. “Yeah”.
“Ya lyin’ little bastard, you’ve no stunned it at all.” The foreman’s, thin tight face filled with sympathy as he looked down at the cradle. “I’ve been a butcher for many a year lad, and I canna say ‘ave seen anyone as cruel as you. It’s the last time I’ll warn ya, if you’re caught again, you’ll be off.” Walking away, he looked back. “For pities sake, have some thought for the wee beasts.”
Jock turned to his work, rolled the sheep over, and began the task of butchering the animal ready for the table.
The 15 August 1969, had been a long day, although tired, he read his newspaper as he began the long bus ride home. In the past year, he’d seen an increase in the activities across the water. Patrick O’Brien had said that the recently held civil rights marches had opened up old Catholic wounds and that armed conflict was merely a matter of time. Now, as he read the paper, it seemed as though the time had come:
DURING THE NIGHT, HUNDRED’S OF PROTESTANT YOUTHS RAMPAGED THROUGH THE STREETS OF BELFAST SETTING FIRE TO CATHOLIC PROPERTIES AND BEATING UP INNOCENT CATHOLICS AS THEY MADE THEIR WAY HOME. IN RETALIATION, CATHOLIC YOUTHS FOUGHT RUNNING BATTLES WITH THE PROTESTANT RUN RESERVE POLICE FORCE, KNOWN AS THE B SPECIALS. PETROL BOMBS WERE THROWN AS MOBS ROAMED THE STREETS. IN THE EARLY HOURS OF THE MORNING HOMES WERE STILL BURNING, AS POLICE USED AUTOMATIC WEAPONS TO RESTORE ORDER. IRISH POLITICIANS ARE CALLING FOR THE DEPLOYMENT OF TROOPS….
Within minutes of arriving home there was a knock at the door. Patrick O’Brien’s grim face met Steen’s.
“Have you heard the news.?”
“I’ve read the papers.”
“So you’ve not heard then, troops have been sent in, it’s on the television news as we speak.” O’Brien led the way into the lounge. His mood changing as he realised Mrs Steen was there. “And how’s my Agnes?” he said, as she stood from her chair and turned to face him.
“Och I’m very well indeed. I wasn’t expecting you ‘til the week-end.”
“I was just passing and thought I’d call in to see Jock.”
“Are you still taking me to the pictures at the week-end?”
“Of course I am, I’d not let a fine lady down, now would I.”
“Jock’s meal is in the oven, I can make it spread if ya feel like stayin’ a while.”
“ No Agnes, thanks for the offer though.” He turned to Jock, “ There’s an open night and shooting competition at the local Territorial Army barracks tomorrow night, I thought you might like to come along and have a go.”
“Aye, I’d like that. Do I have to tak’ ma own gun?”
“No, they’re using .22 rifles.”
“Right enough, I’ll look forward ta that.”
The following morning at 7 a.m. Jock tied his apron, put on his gumboots and made his way to the slaughterhouse for another ‘sheep day’. All around him, the conversations were the same, Protestants and Catholics debating the issues facing Ulster. Minutes before lunch a small ewe struggled free from Jock’s grip, he wrestled it for a moment before slipping, ‘spread eagled’ across the floor. A roar of laughter, from his fellow work-mates, added to his humiliation, he smiled embarrassingly as a colleague handed him the ewe. Placing it on the cradle he looked around, his smile broadening the other slaughter men were still laughing, turning back to the ewe, Steen took hold of one of its front legs and with a swift movement broke it, the ewe screamed, the slaughterhouse fell silent. Steen looked up, “It wont fuckin’ run away now, will it.”
Horrified, several of the men went for him. He pulled his knife and waved it in the air challenging anyone who dared to approach. The ‘stand off’ was broken when the foreman told him to collect his things and leave. As he walked away, a man stepped forward and quickly killed the suffering animal.
By 6.30 p.m., there was no sign of remorse. In the Army barracks, Jock was handling the .22 rifle as though he’d been born with it. A Territorial Army Sergeant explained the working mechanism, inviting him to ‘dress forward' to the firing line. The indoor range was nothing more than a long stone corridor with a pulley system which sent ten-inch cardboard targets to a wall of sandbags some fifty yards away, a dim light hovered overhead. At the Sergeant’s instruction Jock lay down and took aim. Slowly he squeezed the trigger, a loud crack echoed off the walls, the target twitched as the round hit.
“Well you’ve hit the target at least.” The sergeant said.
“To far to the left.” Jock replied. He adjusted his aim, cocked the weapon, and fired again. “That’s better.” He followed the sequence again, accurately sending his third and final shot.
“OK, lay the weapon down keeping the mussel pointed down the range and step back.” Jock moved away, as the sergeant retrieved the target. “Well done lad,” he said “you’ve got two bulls and one just left of centre, great shooting. Have you shot before?”
“I’ve got an air rifle.”
“Is this the first time you’ve shot full bore then?.
“Yeah.”
“Well you should think about joining up lad, that’s a hell of a shot you’ve got.” Jock shrugged his shoulders as he moved away. The sergeant turned to the line of boys anyone want to try and beat that?”
“I can’t see anyone beating that score.” O’Brien said as he viewed the target. “Come on Jock, we’ll have a look at the displays and wait to see if you win.” The two walked away and crossed the barracks towards the display area. Steen was quieter than normal. “Something bothering you Jock?” O’Brien asked.
“I lost my job today.”
“Oh, and why’s that?”
“The foreman’s a cruel bastard, I caught him breaking the leg of a sheep, and tried to stop him, so he sacked me.” Steen lied.
“Did you report him?”
“No point, he’s the man in charge, besides, all his mates work there.”
“Have you told your Mum?”
“No, not yet.”
“Any idea what you’ll do now.”
“I’ll start looking for a new job tomorrow.”
“ What about the Army, you’ve proved your a good shot, that’ll go a long way in there.”
“ No, I’ve said before I won’t join the British Army and fight my own people.”
“ You won’t have to, you could be in there and be helping the struggle.”
“What a ya saying” Jock’s interest was aroused.
“ Remember the Baden Powell book, he spent a lot of his time gathering information which was used by the British Intelligence Service.”
“Spying ya mean?”
“In a word, yes. The more you know about the enemy the better the chances of defeating them.” O’Brien kept an eye open for anyone who might overhear the conversation.
“Are you sayin’ I could join the British Army and spy for the IRA.” Steen’s voice lowered to a whisper.
“Well, not only that. You see Jock, most of the IRA are older men who haven’t seen a weapon for years, in fact most of them have forgotten where they hid their old weapons. Young recruits are enthusiastic but have no skills. But a British trained soldier could lick them into shape in no time.”
Jock was deep in thought when the TA sergeant arrived with a winners certificate. “There you are son, well done.” He handed the certificate over shaking Jock’s hand as he did.
“Is there a place in the Army for a lad like this then?” O’Brien enquired.
“With a shot like that he’s got the makings of a fine sniper.” The sergeant said as he walked away.
“See what I mean Jock, just think what a trained sniper could offer the IRA.”
“But what about ma Mum and ma brothers and sister?”
“It’d be a great honour for me to look after them, whilst you’re away helping the boys over the water, and as you know, I’ve been seeing a lot of your mother lately, a bit more wouldn’t go amiss.”
“If I did decide to do it how would I get in touch with the IRA?”
“That, my boy, is something with which I can assist.” O’Brien searched Steen’s face. “Seriously,” he continued, “if you want to go down this line then it has to be a very well kept secret, you mustn’t mention it to anyone,” O’Brien’s voice changed emphasising the importance of the conversation, “No one!” He said forcefully.
“Did ya, stun that ewe before ya killed her?”
Jock was surprised by the Forman’s appearance. Looking him straight in the eye, he answered. “Yeah”.
“Ya lyin’ little bastard, you’ve no stunned it at all.” The foreman’s, thin tight face filled with sympathy as he looked down at the cradle. “I’ve been a butcher for many a year lad, and I canna say ‘ave seen anyone as cruel as you. It’s the last time I’ll warn ya, if you’re caught again, you’ll be off.” Walking away, he looked back. “For pities sake, have some thought for the wee beasts.”
Jock turned to his work, rolled the sheep over, and began the task of butchering the animal ready for the table.
The 15 August 1969, had been a long day, although tired, he read his newspaper as he began the long bus ride home. In the past year, he’d seen an increase in the activities across the water. Patrick O’Brien had said that the recently held civil rights marches had opened up old Catholic wounds and that armed conflict was merely a matter of time. Now, as he read the paper, it seemed as though the time had come:
DURING THE NIGHT, HUNDRED’S OF PROTESTANT YOUTHS RAMPAGED THROUGH THE STREETS OF BELFAST SETTING FIRE TO CATHOLIC PROPERTIES AND BEATING UP INNOCENT CATHOLICS AS THEY MADE THEIR WAY HOME. IN RETALIATION, CATHOLIC YOUTHS FOUGHT RUNNING BATTLES WITH THE PROTESTANT RUN RESERVE POLICE FORCE, KNOWN AS THE B SPECIALS. PETROL BOMBS WERE THROWN AS MOBS ROAMED THE STREETS. IN THE EARLY HOURS OF THE MORNING HOMES WERE STILL BURNING, AS POLICE USED AUTOMATIC WEAPONS TO RESTORE ORDER. IRISH POLITICIANS ARE CALLING FOR THE DEPLOYMENT OF TROOPS….
Within minutes of arriving home there was a knock at the door. Patrick O’Brien’s grim face met Steen’s.
“Have you heard the news.?”
“I’ve read the papers.”
“So you’ve not heard then, troops have been sent in, it’s on the television news as we speak.” O’Brien led the way into the lounge. His mood changing as he realised Mrs Steen was there. “And how’s my Agnes?” he said, as she stood from her chair and turned to face him.
“Och I’m very well indeed. I wasn’t expecting you ‘til the week-end.”
“I was just passing and thought I’d call in to see Jock.”
“Are you still taking me to the pictures at the week-end?”
“Of course I am, I’d not let a fine lady down, now would I.”
“Jock’s meal is in the oven, I can make it spread if ya feel like stayin’ a while.”
“ No Agnes, thanks for the offer though.” He turned to Jock, “ There’s an open night and shooting competition at the local Territorial Army barracks tomorrow night, I thought you might like to come along and have a go.”
“Aye, I’d like that. Do I have to tak’ ma own gun?”
“No, they’re using .22 rifles.”
“Right enough, I’ll look forward ta that.”
The following morning at 7 a.m. Jock tied his apron, put on his gumboots and made his way to the slaughterhouse for another ‘sheep day’. All around him, the conversations were the same, Protestants and Catholics debating the issues facing Ulster. Minutes before lunch a small ewe struggled free from Jock’s grip, he wrestled it for a moment before slipping, ‘spread eagled’ across the floor. A roar of laughter, from his fellow work-mates, added to his humiliation, he smiled embarrassingly as a colleague handed him the ewe. Placing it on the cradle he looked around, his smile broadening the other slaughter men were still laughing, turning back to the ewe, Steen took hold of one of its front legs and with a swift movement broke it, the ewe screamed, the slaughterhouse fell silent. Steen looked up, “It wont fuckin’ run away now, will it.”
Horrified, several of the men went for him. He pulled his knife and waved it in the air challenging anyone who dared to approach. The ‘stand off’ was broken when the foreman told him to collect his things and leave. As he walked away, a man stepped forward and quickly killed the suffering animal.
By 6.30 p.m., there was no sign of remorse. In the Army barracks, Jock was handling the .22 rifle as though he’d been born with it. A Territorial Army Sergeant explained the working mechanism, inviting him to ‘dress forward' to the firing line. The indoor range was nothing more than a long stone corridor with a pulley system which sent ten-inch cardboard targets to a wall of sandbags some fifty yards away, a dim light hovered overhead. At the Sergeant’s instruction Jock lay down and took aim. Slowly he squeezed the trigger, a loud crack echoed off the walls, the target twitched as the round hit.
“Well you’ve hit the target at least.” The sergeant said.
“To far to the left.” Jock replied. He adjusted his aim, cocked the weapon, and fired again. “That’s better.” He followed the sequence again, accurately sending his third and final shot.
“OK, lay the weapon down keeping the mussel pointed down the range and step back.” Jock moved away, as the sergeant retrieved the target. “Well done lad,” he said “you’ve got two bulls and one just left of centre, great shooting. Have you shot before?”
“I’ve got an air rifle.”
“Is this the first time you’ve shot full bore then?.
“Yeah.”
“Well you should think about joining up lad, that’s a hell of a shot you’ve got.” Jock shrugged his shoulders as he moved away. The sergeant turned to the line of boys anyone want to try and beat that?”
“I can’t see anyone beating that score.” O’Brien said as he viewed the target. “Come on Jock, we’ll have a look at the displays and wait to see if you win.” The two walked away and crossed the barracks towards the display area. Steen was quieter than normal. “Something bothering you Jock?” O’Brien asked.
“I lost my job today.”
“Oh, and why’s that?”
“The foreman’s a cruel bastard, I caught him breaking the leg of a sheep, and tried to stop him, so he sacked me.” Steen lied.
“Did you report him?”
“No point, he’s the man in charge, besides, all his mates work there.”
“Have you told your Mum?”
“No, not yet.”
“Any idea what you’ll do now.”
“I’ll start looking for a new job tomorrow.”
“ What about the Army, you’ve proved your a good shot, that’ll go a long way in there.”
“ No, I’ve said before I won’t join the British Army and fight my own people.”
“ You won’t have to, you could be in there and be helping the struggle.”
“What a ya saying” Jock’s interest was aroused.
“ Remember the Baden Powell book, he spent a lot of his time gathering information which was used by the British Intelligence Service.”
“Spying ya mean?”
“In a word, yes. The more you know about the enemy the better the chances of defeating them.” O’Brien kept an eye open for anyone who might overhear the conversation.
“Are you sayin’ I could join the British Army and spy for the IRA.” Steen’s voice lowered to a whisper.
“Well, not only that. You see Jock, most of the IRA are older men who haven’t seen a weapon for years, in fact most of them have forgotten where they hid their old weapons. Young recruits are enthusiastic but have no skills. But a British trained soldier could lick them into shape in no time.”
Jock was deep in thought when the TA sergeant arrived with a winners certificate. “There you are son, well done.” He handed the certificate over shaking Jock’s hand as he did.
“Is there a place in the Army for a lad like this then?” O’Brien enquired.
“With a shot like that he’s got the makings of a fine sniper.” The sergeant said as he walked away.
“See what I mean Jock, just think what a trained sniper could offer the IRA.”
“But what about ma Mum and ma brothers and sister?”
“It’d be a great honour for me to look after them, whilst you’re away helping the boys over the water, and as you know, I’ve been seeing a lot of your mother lately, a bit more wouldn’t go amiss.”
“If I did decide to do it how would I get in touch with the IRA?”
“That, my boy, is something with which I can assist.” O’Brien searched Steen’s face. “Seriously,” he continued, “if you want to go down this line then it has to be a very well kept secret, you mustn’t mention it to anyone,” O’Brien’s voice changed emphasising the importance of the conversation, “No one!” He said forcefully.
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